


it was cold, but it got warm

by blackwood (transjon)



Series: never dream of you again [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Catboys & Catgirls, Developing Friendships, Gen, M/M, overall upbeat/happy, references to past abuse, tentative crushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28833258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: Jon doesn’t really think either of them has a crush. He just gets more comfortable.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: never dream of you again [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027144
Comments: 6
Kudos: 94





	it was cold, but it got warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrangeLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrangeLady/gifts).



> sidenote ; jons a catboy, georgies a catgirl, theres a mention of cheating in there but its just sasha making a guess re: how jongeorgie ended, and she's not right. this has very little discussion of past abuse but it is in the same verse as the other past abusive jonelias fics so keep that in mind i guess (or dont). 
> 
> title is from the gambler by fun!

Tim has this tendency to slap Jon on the shoulder or on the back when something Jon says makes him laugh.

It’s a little weird. Jon’s not too used to it yet, but it’s better than when he’d almost done it and then backed away slowly, like he’d thought maybe doing so might break Jon. 

The pub is bright and airy and barely half-full. It’s noon, so it makes sense. Not many people on their lunch break yet. The table isn’t sticky. The floor is a little tacky, but that’s what they get for picking the less-than-stellar ones. Jon walks across the floor delicately, just the arches and toes of his shoes, and he thinks he spots Martin watching him from the corner of his eye, mouth twitching in amusement. His tail flicks. Martin’s feet land on the floor solidly. 

Seated at the corner table Tim orders a fresh lemonade and tells them that lemonade is supposed to be like that. Sasha tells him that he’s being an asshole, because most countries mean soda when they say lemonade. Jon smiles faintly. Martin frowns into his coke, conscious of the conversation turning a little tense, but Tim stretches his arm out to poke Sasha in the side. He can’t slap Jon on the shoulder, or the back, or the arm, because he’s across the table from Jon, who’s feeling a little awkward sitting so close to Martin, and Martin’s keeping a respectful distance from him, for some reason, so when Jon’s joke lands, for what feels like maybe the first time, Tim slaps Sasha’s shoulder instead.

“Ow,” she says. 

“Sorry,” says Tim, not sounding very sorry at all. “God. I didn’t know you had it in you, boss.”

Sasha rolls her eyes, but she, too, is smiling. 

“Why do I feel like you’re giving all the credit to Sasha?” Jon asks. 

“Nah,” says Tim. “She’s just the closest person for me to slap.”

“Violent,” mumbles Sasha. “Have you considered the table? Or your own arm?”

Tim pauses to consider. “Good idea,” he says. “We can try again. Jon, give me another.”

Jon freezes. “Uh,” he says. “I don’t know. I can’t just – come up with funny things –”

“That’s fine,” says Tim, “Martin, go.”

Martin, flustered at being singled out, makes a noise somewhere between a word and a whine. “What?”

“Just say something funny.”

“Uh,” says Martin. “Something funny.”

Tim pauses. Considers. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and then he slaps the edge of the table. “Ah, fuck –”

Sasha makes a face. “Not the _edge_ ,” she says, and then when Tim grimaces at her, holding his injured hand with his other, “let me try.”

Jon looks at Martin, who looks back. Smiles slightly. Together they watch the heel of Sasha’s hand connect with the edge of the table, and then they watch her face contort in pain, a long, low hiss leaving her mouth.

“Ah,” she says. “Ow.”

“Yeah,” says Tim. “Yeah.”

Martin giggles, a little breathless. Jon looks at him, a little smile on his lips. Martin looks back, gives a little shake of his head. A little fond thing. A thing of _can you believe them_. Jon looks away, still smiling. 

–

The snow on the ground is unseasonable, but good. The ice underneath it not so much. The stone stairs up to Tim’s place are frozen over entirely, it seems, and Jon struggles to balance on the slippery surface, tail swishing and tensing as his shoes try to keep traction. 

“Jon!” 

Jon turns his head, as careful as he can, as if if he were to do it any faster he might slip. “Martin.”

Martin, sliding over the frozen sidewalk, bundled up in his scarf and thick coat and knitted hat, waves at him quickly. “Wait up.”

Jon stills. He doesn’t comment on the amount and thickness of the clothing Martin’s wearing, but he does wonder if he’s hot underneath it all. It’s not that cold. Just enough below freezing to keep the snow and the ice on the ground. “Hello,” he says.

“Hi,” Martin says. “It’s not as cold as I thought it’d be.”

Jon laughs at that. “Yeah,” he says, and gestures at his own jacket. It’s the thickest he has, granted, just not a winter coat. “I had a feeling.”

Martin rolls his eyes, but it’s good natured. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, “look at you, knowing how to dress for the weather.”

Jon smiles slightly. “Better to dress too warm than to not wear enough,” he says. “You can always take off layers, all that.”

“I suppose,” says Martin, and then sighs. “Right! Did you let him know we’re here? Text? Knock?”

“Oh,” says Jon. “No. Do you want to knock? Or, ah, seems like he has a doorbell?”

“Ah! Sure.” 

Martin rings the doorbell with two fingers, like he’s in a hurry, or like if he puts enough pressure into it it’ll ring louder. 

“So,” Jon says as they wait for Tim to open the door, “did you bring wine?”

He can’t see any on Martin. No backpack, and the box he’s holding in his hands seems more, well, box-shaped than it looks wine-shaped, although he guesses it’s possible he’s hiding one underneath his coat.

Martin makes a face like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. “Oh,” he says, “um. No, but I did bring biscuits.”

Jon nods. “Perfectly respectable.”

“It’s just that wine gives me a headache,” Martin says, an apologetic tone creeping into his voice, “I can drink, sure, I do drink! I just don’t really like wine, you know –”

Jon tries to say it’s fine. “It’s got tannins,” he says instead. “Wine, that is. That’s probably why.”

Martin exhales. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, exactly! Thank you.”

He doesn’t say that so does tea. Smiles at him instead. Martin smiles back. 

–

Georgie is standing by the stage barely a few feet away from them.

“Oh,” he says. Sasha, holding onto his arm, stumbles slightly when Jon moves away, and makes a little displeased sound. 

“What?” she asks. Jon turns to face away. 

“My ex is here,” he whispers. “And we didn’t exactly, uh, separate on great terms –”

“Ah,” says Sasha, all knowing smiles. “I get it. So who cheated?”

Jon splutters. “Nobody cheated! It just didn’t end great.”

Sasha nods. “Can’t have been too bad, then. That’s the real relationship breaker, y’know – no coming back from that –”

“Yeah, yeah,” mumbles Jon. “Well, she’s here.”

Martin and Tim appear, just then. 

“You’re facing away from the stage,” Martin says. He hands one of the plastic beer glasses to Jon, who takes it gingerly, ears twitching. “Do you not like the band?”

“No,” says Jon at the same time as Sasha says “his ex is here.”

“Uh oh,” says Tim, and extends an arm towards Sasha to hand her her drink. “Did they see you?”

“I don’t think so,” Jon mumbles. His tail wilts, tip brushing the dirty floor.

Martin makes a sympathetic noise. “I’m sure it’s fine. Just don’t, y’know, make a scene, and I’m sure –”

“Jon?”

Jon startles, because Georgie’s just tapped him on the shoulder. “Georgie!”

Georgie’s ears twitch in a way that signals some level of reserved amusement. “Did you just run away from me?”

“No,” Jon lies. “I just –”

“Hi,” says Tim, “I’m Tim. Jon’s my _boss_.” The last part he says in a sort of a conspiratorial stage whisper, as if it’s a secret. 

“Hi,” says Georgie. “Georgie. Jon and I used to date.”

Jon, ears pulling back nervously, fidgets with his glass. “So, uh, how are you?”

“I’m good,” Georgie says. She doesn’t have a drink, and for a second Jon has the impulse to offer her a sip of his. Like they’re still friends. “I don’t really like this band, though.”

Jon laughs. “Yeah, they’re not – they’re not that good, are they –”

“Hey,” interrupts Martin. “Those are my _friends_.”

“Sorry,” Jon rushes to say, “I mean they’re not _bad_ either –”

“No,” Tim says, “no, you should let him speak, Martin.”

Georgie watches the interaction with a little smile on her lips. “I’m glad you’re doing good, too,” she says. “I have to go back to my friends but we could,” she makes a little contemplative noise, “what if I add you on Facebook? You’re on Facebook, right?”

“Yeah,” Jon says. “Yeah, okay.”

Georgie’s tail twitches. She looks at Jon’s where it’s starting to rise to point up again. “Great,” she says. “I’ll see you around!”

“Ended on bad terms, huh,” says Sasha. One slightly judgemental hand lands on Jon’s shoulder. “Was it _actually_ not great terms, or –”

Jon flushes. Grumbles out something. Sasha pats him, and then lets go. “Let's go find food. I’m starving.”

–

Around mid-December Jon finally gathers the courage to invite them over. 

His flat, bare as it still is, has enough seating now. He’s even gotten a little room separator to hide his bed. Everything embarrassing is out of sight, most of it locked away, too. He’s feeling okay, even knowing how nosy Sasha can be. 

Martin rings the doorbell a full twenty minutes early. Jon, still waiting on the rice cooker, scrambles to open the door. 

“Hi,” Martin says. “Sorry, I know I’m early, I just – I took the bus, and I thought I’d rather be early than late, so I took the earlier bus, just in case the next one was going to be late, and I was going to walk around or go to a coffee shop or something to kill time, but it’s,” he laughs, “it’s _really_ windy out there.”

Jon smiles. Snow’s turned into mud and slush. Water’s coming down almost daily, and the wind –

“Come in,” he says. 

Martin hangs up his coat and toes off his shoes. He’s made use of the door mat, it seems, because his shoes are only minimally muddy when he puts them on the shoe rack. 

“Sorry, I don’t have anything set up yet. I still have to,” Jon glances at the mess that is his kitchen, “I still have to clean.”

Martin smiles. “I can set the table?”

“Sure.”

The awkward thing, he supposes, is pointing out to Martin where things are. Glasses, cutlery, plates, all that. Martin tries to gather all of them without getting in Jon’s way, which proves to be a little tricky, but they manage. 

“So,” Martin says, nudging the cutlery slightly so it sits nicer on the table, “what’s that?”

Jon glances at the pot he’s got simmering on the stove. “Oh,” he says, “curry.”

Martin nods. “Very specific.”

Jon flushes. “Ah,” he says, “well – chicken korma, really. I was going to make something else but I was worried it was going to be,” he gestures, “I don’t know. I didn’t want to make anything too out there.”

“Yeah,” Martin nods, “that seems like a likely problem.”

Jon cracks an unsure smile, to which Martin responds with an equally unsure smile. Like he’s not sure if the joke landed right. “Right,” says Jon. “It’s a silly worry, isn’t it?”

“No,” says Martin. “No, it’s really sweet. It’d be bad if people couldn’t eat what you’re serving, right?”

“Yeah,” Jon exhales. “Right, right.”

Martin sits down on one of the barstools, then. Jon glances at him. “I should,” he gestures at the pile of dishes in the sink. 

“Want a hand?” Martin asks. “I’ve been told I’m good at both washing and drying.”

Jon smiles. “Sure, okay. I should probably dry – just because I know where everything goes.”

“You got it,” says Martin. There’s a little unsure, anxious waver underneath his voice. Jon, in his head, catches it by the tail and sinks his teeth in. Why, he wonders. 

–

At the bar Jon’s got his tail tucked underneath himself, between the barstool legs, out of the way and hanging loosely. 

“Does it ever get caught? Or trapped, I guess? Between stuff?” asks Martin. He’s a few drinks deep into the night. More comfortable asking and inquiring and saying things, it seems. 

“Yes,” Jon admits, and then winces. “Sometimes people even step on it.”

Martin gasps, like he’s shocked and enraged. “No,” he says. “That’s _rude_.”

Jon smiles into his glass. “Not on purpose,” he says. Well. Normally, at least. Some people do. A faceless shape looms in his head for a moment. He pushes it down. “But, yes, it’s not fun.”

Martin’s bottom lip wobbles, like he’s getting emotional. “I can’t believe people would do that,” he mumbles. “I would never do that.”

Jon takes a sip of his drink, a little amused. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate it.”

It’s a little weird, really. The promise. Most people wouldn’t do it on purpose anyway, like you wouldn’t step on someone’s foot. How you wouldn’t kick the backs of people’s feet. Sometimes things just happen – his tail trailing on the floor, someone’s foot landing on the tip of it when he stops abruptly. Martin’s tipsy, though, which Jon assumes makes him feel much more solemn and emotional about this promise. He’ll let it be.

“Jon,” says Martin, quietly, softly. “I think your tail is _so_ pretty.”

Which is – a little surprising, if only because nobody ever really says that, no more often than they’d tell him he has beautiful arms. “Thank you?”

Martin nods decisively, like he’s said something very important. Something very profound. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

–

So the thing is –

Jon doesn’t really think either of them has a crush. Jon just gets more comfortable. He still likes spending most of his time in his flat, or in his office, but the socialization stops being quite so exhausting or scary. When he’s invited out he can say yes, and when he says no he knows they won’t assume it’s because he doesn’t _like_ them. 

They all hang out together, generally. Tim’s place, since it’s the biggest, or at a pub, or a restaurant, sometimes. He can count the times he’s been alone with Tim or Sasha on the fingers of one hand. Martin, however, seems to be more comfortable spending time alone with him, one on one. 

Like: he brings Jon tea. He knows he does the same for Tim and Sasha, too, but with Jon it’s – he’s going out of his way walking all the way to his office. He fidgets awkwardly, just a little bit, but not quite as much as he used to. He stutters less. Jon curls up in his office chair, and sometimes he has time to have a chat with Martin while he sips on the tea, fluffy tail curled around his legs. Martin talks to him about poetry, which Jon doesn’t care about, and Jon tells him about whatever he’s been thinking about all day that day, which often is the same thing as the day before, but Martin doesn’t seem to mind. At least he doesn’t show it, which means Jon doesn’t show it when Martin’s chatter about whatever poem he’s working on gets a little much either. 

So: he doesn’t think either of them has a _crush_ on the other. Of course not. They’re just friends. Barely that, even, probably – Jon wouldn’t want to assume. They just hang out. Martin comes over and they cook, sometimes, or Jon goes to what Martin calls _slam poetry nights_ with him, and tolerates it, because Martin seems to love being there. Usually they just walk around, though, long enough for Jon’s ears to get cold on the tips, and then they say goodbye, and maybe they text, a little bit, but not more than is normal. 

Still, though. Jon sits in his office and waits for Martin to bring him tea, or invite him into the breakroom for a cup, not for the _tea_ , but for – for _Martin_ , he has to admit. 

Guess he shouldn’t be surprised when Martin asks if they should go on a _proper_ date, eventually. Guess he shouldn’t be surprised when, to his surprise, he isn’t.

“Sure,” he says. “Tonight?”

“Oh!” says Martin, like he’d been half convinced Jon’d say no. “Sure!”

“Great,” says Jon. Smiles. His tail swishes. “Can’t wait.”


End file.
